


Unspoken

by Saltlordofold



Series: Dragon age: Arising [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dragon Age: Arising, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Introspection, Modern Thedas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 15:53:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21412735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saltlordofold/pseuds/Saltlordofold
Summary: As Warden-Commander, Duncan wishes he could keep a strictly professional relationship with his subordinate, but sadly for him the boy just keeps being so...himself.
Relationships: Alistair & Duncan (Dragon Age)
Series: Dragon age: Arising [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1297943
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill for the awesome [ @lesquatrechevrons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesquatrechevrons/pseuds/lesquatrechevrons). _ "You make me so happy,"_ from tumblr user [@tiptoe39's](https://tiptoe39.tumblr.com/post/152690639271/super-sappy-lines-prompt-list) "Super Sappy Prompt List".

It’s hard on most days to hide how much he wants to smile whenever the boy is around. On others, it’s outright impossible, and on those Duncan can’t help but let a hint of it slip out. A small thing, every time, all eyes, never mouth, but the kid… The kid always sees, and the obvious effect it has on him only makes the whole deal a lot more complicated – and Great Universe knows, it already is so much more than either of them need it to be.

Duncan should be wiser than this, he keeps telling himself. Wiser than to let it settle, let it perpetuate, let it _deepen_. But no matter how hard he resists, the boy always beats it out of him - and so effortlessly, at that, even when it’s clear as day that he himself doesn’t understand why it keeps happening, and is as confused as Duncan is by the whole situation. It could be irritating, but by virtue of the inexplicable paradox that keeps them entrapped, it has the very opposite effect, of course.

There’s no pin-pointing exactly what it is that causes it. Duncan knows because he has tried, in hopes that once he had isolated the significant moments, the responsible attitudes, he could build himself up to better resist them. But it’s no one thing, he inevitably found out, rather a net of threads so tightly interwoven together that the whole they knit is entirely inextricable, and there’s no bracing oneself against a net that casts itself so wide.

It’s the infinite puns, for one, the goofy smiles that follow. The silly jokes, and the seemingly bottomless well of wit the boy constantly fishes them out of, along with so much else. By all means, they should irk him, appear to him as breath wasted and focus broken, but they don’t, somehow. Perhaps it’s because of the creativity they betray, unwillingly, the nimble smarts they try to shrug off but fail so hard to camouflage. _Her_ smarts, and yet, how differently they manifest with him. No less sharp, but less cool, for sure.

Maybe it’s how obviously the boy uses it as armour, all that laughter turned inwards. As barrier, as shield from all the many, difficult things he has coming from outside - but mostly inside - of him. Duncan knows how deeply those hurts run and is all the more awed by the tenacity of that smile and the determination with which the boy manages to use it for others’ sake, that intimate defence. With his shield turned outwards, how aptly he can curb the mood of a room, bridle attention, lift spirits. He makes himself the instrument of his fellow warden’s morale and Duncan can’t help but wish he’d protect his own with as much ferocity as he does his comrades’. Not a very “Commander” thing to think: he should welcome the effect unquestioning, appreciate the profit to be gained from each recruit in service of the Duty, and not worry about the cost. And yet here he is, wondering what goes on behind those brown eyes whenever laughter has died out and the boy takes it on himself to bring it back.

So it’s the facade, yes, but it’s also what shows up underneath it when it falls.

Like the fidgeting. The hunch, the lowered eyes, the tense line that comes to his mouth, the corner of a nail worried between teeth. Duncan remembers seeing it on him more than a few times – not spying, no, by pure coincidence, of course – always in the after-hours. Leaning against a training mat or a tree on the outside trail, arms crossed and head low, curled on himself like he tends to do when no one is there to see him. Eyes distant and anxious, distracted tugging at the folds of his clothes, wiping a hand across his mouth, throwing his head back against the hard surface behind him, eyes squeezed shut, exhaling deep sighs. Duncan was certain he’d dislike all of it – as he should, because what time is there to waste on doubt? But how the tables turn for him when it comes to this boy. There’s such beauty, Duncan finds, in how the uniform smooths all of that out of him. How it stills the hand, lifts the chin, squares the shoulders. How the boy fills it, how he wears it, the deep sky blue, like it should be worn, with reverence, with something solemn, something from another time, almost.

But still, underneath is the same, scared boy, doing his best to to hide behind the mask of Silver, and no matter how Duncan tries, he’s seemingly weak to that contradiction. He tells himself it’s because of Fiona, because he cares for her, and for the vows he made. But the lie never really holds, and the moments of weakness keep coming.

It’s the way the boy’s eyes go wide when he has an idea, how good the idea often is, and how quickly he makes note of the suggestions and advice needed to improve it.

It’s the grit teeth, other times, the endurance to burden and the willingness to take it on, take it all on, foolishly, much more than he can bear. It’s the mistakes, too, the miscalculations, the pinch on his lips when he knows he failed, jaw twitching with anger at himself. How hard it is on him, and how he still always gets back up, ready to try again.

It’s the way he disagrees, and doesn’t hold back from saying it. Sure it costs him, but he narrows his eyes and straightens his back and speaks it like it is. Duncan dislikes a door-mat, and this boy is everything but.

It’s also the way he doesn’t notice how people follow him already. How when he turns his back, the others keep looking at him. Even Cousland, with his blank face, has that spark in his cold eyes when Alistair opens the way. He’s leading them, and they follow, and he doesn’t even know it yet. If one were to tell him, he wouldn’t believe it, and that’s fine. It will creep up on him eventually, and Duncan will make sure he is ready when it dawns.

Yes, it’s all of that. The humility – sometimes too much of it – the stubbornness – definitively a handful – the clumsy, yet relentless kindness, and the unwavering, adamant belief in the Duty and all that it entails.

“Goodnight, Commander,” the boy says, whenever they meet, in those after-hours where they’re not meant to cross paths, but inevitably do. Spoken as if from under, somehow, even though he’s so much taller than him.

“Goodnight, Warden,” Duncan says back. “Goodnight, _Alistair_,” when he’s feeling bolder.

_“I love spending time with you,” _is what he would like to say instead, _“You make me happy, every moment of it.”_

He wants to say a lot of things. But he shouldn’t, so instead he just nods his head, maybe allows himself a pat on that big back, and says: “Well done today, Warden.”

“Good thinking, earlier,” he says, “Great catch.”

_“It’s a privilege to be able to see you grow,”_ is what he means.

“Nice shooting.” 

_“You are a good man.” _

“Pertinent question.”

_“I wish we could be around each other out of Base as well.”_

And the way the boy looks back at him doesn’t make anything easier, but neither of them can help it, it seems, so it goes on like this: unspoken, but no less real. All eyes, never mouth, but still seen, still heard.


End file.
